Hour of the wolf ivv-7

by Håkan Nesser

  In Maardam Vera Miller had started work at Gemejnte Hospital in the spring of 1992, and two-and-a-half years later she married Andreas Wollger. Neither her mother not her siblings knew anything at all about this second marriage. They hadn’t been to a wedding celebration — didn’t even know that there had been one — and had only been in sporadic contact with Vera in recent years.

  Andreas Wollger’s condition was unchanged. At about seven o’clock on Monday evening it had still not been possible to interrogate him any further about his relationship with his wife as he was still in shock after what had happened. However, both Moreno and Reinhart had the strong impression that relations between the two had probably not been of the best.

  And probably not second-best either.

  What still needed to be done, of course, was to get these assumptions confirmed via conversations and interrogations with people who had known the couple in some connection or other.

  And via herr Wollger himself.

  As far as Vera Miller’s general character was concerned, it soon became clear that she was a very much admired and liked woman, in the view of both friends and colleagues. Most notably of all, a certain Irene Vargas — who had known Vera since they were both knee-high to a grasshopper down in Groenstadt, and now lived in Maardam — had expressed her shocked sorrow and regret at losing, as she put it, ‘one of the warmest and most honest people I’ve ever known, it’s a bloody tragedy’. Fru Vargas and Vera Miller had evidently been close friends for many years, and Reinhart assumed that if there was anybody at all who might possibly have insight into the darker sides of Vera’s life — possible extra-marital relations, for instance — she was the one.

  No such information had emerged from the first conversation with her, but of course there was good reason to talk to her again about it.

  Very good reason. By all accounts it seemed that Vera Miller had begun two-timing her husband round about the end of October/beginning of November. According to what she had told her husband, she would be attending a further education course for nurses in Aarlach for several weekends to come, at least eight.

  Where she actually spent those Saturdays and Sundays — and with whom — was still an unanswered question.

  ‘Bloody blockhead,’ said Reinhart. ‘Fancy letting her go off every weekend without checking up on what she was doing. How naive can you get?’

  ‘Are you telling me that you would check up on Winnifred if she announced she was enrolling for a course?’ Moreno wondered.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Reinhart. ‘That’s something entirely different.’

  ‘I don’t see the logic,’ said Moreno.

  ‘Intuition,’ said Reinhart. ‘Healthy male intuition. Anyway, are we in agreement that he’s not the one who did it? Wollger, that is.’

  ‘I think so,’ said Moreno. ‘We’d better not eliminate the possibility altogether, though it seems highly unlikely. But what we can say about the link with Erich Van Veeteren… well, I haven’t a clue about that.’

  While deBries and Rooth were talking to people who knew the Miller-Wollgers, Moreno had been concentrating on Marlene Frey and some of Erich Van Veeteren’s friends, but nobody had been able to supply any information that seemed remotely relevant.

  Nobody had recognized Vera Miller from the photograph they had borrowed from Irene Vargas, and nobody could recall ever having heard her name before.

  ‘I don’t know where I stand on that either,’ said Reinhart, blowing out a cloud of smoke. ‘I have to admit that. I’ll be meeting The Chief Inspector tomorrow, and I think I’ll raise it with him… The possible link. That would mean we had something concrete to talk about. It gets so bloody depressing, just sitting there philosophizing about death.’

  Moreno thought for a moment.

  ‘You’re very fond of theories,’ she said. ‘I mean, is it possible to find a motive for killing both Erich Van Veeteren and Vera Miller based on the assumption that they didn’t know one another? Can you think up a story that hangs together?’

  ‘A story…?’ said Reinhart, scratching his forehead with the stem of his pipe. ‘Without their knowing each other? Hmm, it could be as far-fetched as you like, and yet still be crystal clear if you could see the actual threads… Assuming of course that we’re not dealing with an out-and-out lunatic, because that would be a different kettle of fish altogether. Yes, of course I could think up a chain of events that hang together — I could churn out ten if you wanted me to. But where would that get us?’

  Moreno smiled.

  ‘Do that,’ she said. ‘Spend the night thinking up ten threads linking the deaths of Erich Van Veeteren and Vera Miller. Then tell me about them tomorrow, and I promise I’ll pick out the right one.’

  ‘Good God,’ said Reinhart. ‘I have a lovely wife to devote the nights to. And a daughter with inflammation of the ear to see to when she hasn’t got any strength left. Are you still married to your work?’

  ‘It seems like it,’ said Moreno.

  ‘Seems like it? What the hell is that for an expression?’ He leaned forward over the table and stared at her with a vertical furrow between his eyebrows.

  ‘It’s something to do with Munster. Isn’t it?’

  Inspector Moreno stared back at him for three seconds.

  ‘Go to hell,’ she said, and left the room.

  ‘Do you know what I am?’ said Rooth. ‘I’m the worst hunter in Europe.’

  ‘I’ve no reason to doubt that,’ said Jung. ‘Mind you, I didn’t know you did any hunting.’

  ‘Women,’ sighed Rooth. ‘I’m talking about women. Here’s me busy chasing after them for twenty years… twenty-five, in fact… And I haven’t captured a single one. What the hell am I supposed to do?’

  Jung looked around the bar, which was full of men. They had just dropped in at the Oldener Maas in order to gild the day (Rooth’s term), and it didn’t appear to be especially good hunting ground.

  ‘You’ve got yours nailed down,’ said Rooth. ‘Maureen’s a bloody marvellous woman. If she throws you out I’d be only too happy to take over.’

  ‘I’ll tell her that,’ said Jung. ‘That should guarantee that she’ll hang on to me.’

  ‘Kiss my arse,’ said Rooth, and took a justifiable swig of his beer. ‘But perhaps it’s due to the ammunition.’

  ‘Ammunition?’ said Jung.

  ‘I’m beginning to think I’ve been using too big a calibre of buckshot all these years. I’m thinking about reading some poetry — what do you think about that?’

  ‘Good,’ said Jung. ‘Just the thing for a man like you. Can’t we talk about something else instead of women?’

  Rooth assumed an expression of utter astonishment.

  ‘What the hell could that possibly be?’

  Jung shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know. Work, perhaps?’

  ‘I prefer women,’ said Rooth with a sigh. ‘But since you ask so nicely…’

  ‘We could just sit and keep our traps shut,’ said Jung. ‘Perhaps the best choice.’

  Rooth really did sit quietly for quite a while, digging deep into the bowl of peanuts and chewing away thoughtfully.

  ‘I’ve got a hypothesis,’ he said eventually.

  ‘A hypothesis?’ said Jung. ‘Not a theory?’

  ‘I don’t really know the difference between them,’ Rooth admitted. ‘Who cares, in any case?… Now listen to this…’

  ‘My ears can’t wait.’

  ‘Good,’ said Rooth. ‘But don’t keep interrupting me all the time. Anyway, this Vera Miller… If she was having an affair with another man, it would make sense if we found the bloke in question.’

  ‘You’re a genius,’ said Jung. ‘How do you do it, Constable?’

  ‘I haven’t finished yet. There’s no doubt it would make things easier if we knew where to look for him.’

  Jung yawned.

  ‘This is where the hypothesis bursts out into full bloom,’ said Rooth. ‘It’s obvious that we’re looki
ng for a doctor.’

  ‘A doctor? Why the hell…?’

  ‘It’s as clear as a summer’s day. She worked at a hospital. Sooner or later all nurses fall for a man in a white coat with knick-knacks round his neck. The stethoscope syndrome. It affects all the women who work in that line of business. We should be looking for Dr X, it’s as simple as that. At Gemejnte Hospital. Perhaps I should have studied medicine…’

  Jung succeeded in grabbing the last of the peanuts.

  ‘How many are there? Doctors at the Gemejnte, I mean.’

  ‘God only knows,’ said Rooth. ‘A few hundred, I assume. But it must surely be somebody she came into contact with… In the line of work, as they say. On the same ward, or whatever. What do you think?’

  Jung thought for a moment.

  ‘If we believe what Meusse has told us,’ he said, ‘how does this fit in with the postage stamp theory and the blackmailer theory?’

  Rooth belched discreetly into his armpit.

  ‘My young friend,’ he said with a fatherly smile. ‘You can’t just mix theories up with hypotheses as the whim takes you — I thought you knew that. Was it the police college you attended, or the dog handlers’ college?’

  ‘Go and buy a couple of beers,’ said Jung. ‘But don’t mix them up.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ said Rooth, standing up.

  He’s not as stupid as he looks, thought Jung when he was alone at the table.

  Thank God for that.

  Why do I do this? Moreno thought when she had come home.

  She kicked off her shoes in irritation and threw her jacket into the basket chair.

  Why do I tell Reinhart to go to hell and slam the door behind me? Am I becoming a man-hater? A bitch?

  He was right, after all. Absolutely right. There had been something going with Munster — even if she couldn’t be more precise about it than Reinhart had been.

  Only something. It had come to an end when Munster had been stabbed up in Frigge last January, and very nearly lost his life. Since then he had been in hospital for months, and was now mixed up in some dodgy inquiry at the ministry, filling in time until he was fit for battle again. That would be a few more months yet, if rumour was correct.

  Hell and damnation, she thought. And when he’s back on duty, what then? Presumably in February. What would happen then?

  Nothing at all, of course. Intendent Munster had gone back to his wife and children — and he had never left them in the first place, not for a second. What had she imagined? What was she waiting for? Was she really waiting for something? She had only met him a couple of times since it happened, and there hadn’t been the slightest trace of any vibrations. Not even a flutter in the air… Well, maybe a little one that first time, when she and Synn were both sitting at his bedside… There had been something in the air then.

  But no more than that. A slight flutter. Once.

  And who the hell was she to come between Munster and his wonderful Synn? And the children?

  I’m losing the plot, she thought. I’m becoming just as dotty as all the rest of the lonely spinsters. Did it really take no longer than that to become an old maid? Was it really as simple as that? To be sure, when she left that shit-head Claus she had been furious with him, and the wasted five years she’d spent with him. But she hadn’t tarred all men with the same brush. Not Munster, at least. Certainly not him.

  But now she had more or less told Reinhart to fuck off. Just because he had happened to tread on the right toe. To be sure, Reinhart was not her type (was there such a creature?), but she had always regarded him as a good person and a good police officer.

  And a man.

  I must do something about all this, she told herself as she turned on the shower in the hope of washing all the horrors away.

  Maybe not right away, but in the long run I really must. Thirty-one and an embittered man-hater?

  Or a desperate hunter? Even worse, much worse. No, there are — there must be — better strategies for the future.

  But not just at the moment. This evening she had neither the time nor the strength. And no ideas, either. Better to get down to something different. To the challenge she had presented him with, perhaps?

  Ten possible links between Erich Van Veeteren and Vera Miller.

  Ten? she thought. What hubris.

  Let’s see if I can find three.

  Or two.

  Or even one, at least?

  Winnifred had just started her period, and Joanna had finally accepted the blessings bestowed by penicillin, so as far as Reinhart was concerned it was neither one thing nor the other. Instead he sat down on the sofa to watch an old Truffaut film while Winnifred prepared the next day’s seminar in the study. She woke him up when the film had finished. They spent a quarter of an hour comparing the relative attractions of Leros and Sakynthos with an eye to a possible trip at Easter, and when they eventually went to bed he was unable to sleep.

  Two thoughts were buzzing around in his head.

  The first concerned Van Veeteren. He was due to meet The Chief Inspector the next day and would be forced to admit that they were still marking time on square one. That after three weeks’ work they still hadn’t a single lead, not even the slightest sniff of one, in their hunt for his son’s murderer. Needless to say he would report on the strange circumstance regarding the blow to the back of Vera Miller’s head, but there wasn’t a lot to say about that.

  We simply don’t know what lay behind it, he would have to admit. What a bloody mess, Reinhart thought.

  The other thought concerned Ewa Moreno.

  I’m a cretin, he thought. Not always, but now and then. He had promised her ten plausible scenarios to explain a connection he hadn’t the slightest idea about, and then he had insulted her.

  Insulted her and stuck his nose into matters that were nothing at all to do with him.

  Another bloody mess.

  He got up at two o’clock and phoned her.

  ‘Were you asleep?’ he asked. ‘It’s Reinhart.’

  ‘I can hear that,’ said Moreno. ‘No, I was awake in fact.’

  ‘I want to apologize,’ said Reinhart. ‘I mean, I’m ringing to apologize… I’m a bloody cretin.’

  She said nothing for a moment.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For the apology, that is. But I don’t think you’re all that much of a cretin. I wasn’t myself, it was my fault.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Reinhart. ‘Very clever. And uplifting. Two grown-up people exchanging apologies on the telephone in the middle of the night. It must have something to do with sun-spots — I’m sorry I rang

  … No, for Christ’s sake! Now I’ve put my foot in it again.’

  Moreno laughed.

  ‘Why aren’t you asleep?’ Reinhart asked.

  ‘I’m trying to think of ten plausible connections.’

  ‘Oh dear. How many have you got?’

  ‘None,’ said Moreno.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Reinhart. ‘I’ll see what I can come up with. Goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow under a cold star.’

  ‘Good night, Chief Inspector,’ said Moreno. ‘Why aren’t you asleep, incidentally?’

  But Reinhart had already hung up.

  23

  Van Veeteren stared at the phosphorescent second hand making its leisurely way round the face of the clock. He had been doing that for quite some time, but every new circuit was a new experience even so. He suddenly remembered that a long time ago, in pre-puberty — if he had in fact ever been through such a phase — he used to occupy himself when he couldn’t sleep by taking his pulse. He decided he’d try that now.

  Fifty-two the first minute.

  Forty-nine the second one.

  Fifty-four the third.

  Good Lord, he thought. My heart is collapsing as well.

  He lay there for a few more minutes without taking his pulse. Wished he’d had Ulrike by his side, but she was sleeping over with her children out at Loewingen. Or at least, with on
e of them. Jurg, aged eighteen, and the last one to fly the nest. She obviously needed to spend some time with him as well, he realized that. Even if he seemed to be an unusually level-headed young man. As far as he could judge, at least: they had only met three times, but everything seemed to point in that direction.

  Apart from the fact that he wanted to become a police officer.

  Van Veeteren sighed, and rolled over in order to avoid having to look at the confounded clock. Put one of the pillows over his head.

  A quarter past two, he thought. I’m the only person in the whole world who’s awake.

  He got up an hour later. It was impossible to sleep — the last few nights he had managed no more than two to three hours on average, and no known medicines helped.

  Nor did beer. Nor wine. Nor even Handel.

  It was just as bad with other composers, so it wasn’t Handel’s fault.

  It’s not possible, he thought as he stood in the bathroom, splashing cold water into his face. It’s not possible to sleep — and I know why, for Christ’s sake. Why don’t I just admit it? Why don’t I stand on the mountain-top and shout it out so loudly that all mankind can hear it?

  Revenge! Show me the father who can lie at peace in his bed while the search for his son’s murderer is going on out there!

  It was as simple as that. Embedded deep down in the black hole of biology. He had known that when he wrote about it in his diary a few hours ago, and he knew it now. Action was the only effective antidote. Homo agentus. In all situations. Illusory or real. Do something, for God’s sake!

  He got dressed. Checked the weather through the kitchen window, and went out. It felt freezing cold, but no rain and hardly any wind. He set off walking.

  Southwards to begin with. Down over Zuijderslaan and Primmerstraat towards Megsje Plejn. When he came to the Catholic cemetery he hesitated for a moment, then decided to skirt round it: but when he came to the southeastern corner he felt that he’d had enough of all that asphalt and turned off into Randers Park, which was a sort of natural extension of the cemetery. Or perhaps the cemetery was a natural extension of the park, it wasn’t clear which. No doubt there was a history to explain it, but he wasn’t aware of it.